


A Hitchhiker's Guide to Manchester

by gritsinmisery



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Abduction, Bondage, Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-29
Updated: 2008-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritsinmisery/pseuds/gritsinmisery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been taken on a little trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hitchhiker's Guide to Manchester

**Author's Note:**

> Not a crossover, more of a homage.

A Hitchhiker’s Guide to Manchester

Blinking, Sam Tyler came to slowly. He had a horrible headache and was lying naked, supine, uncovered, and – he gave a tentative tug with both arms – yes, his arms were restrained with handcuffs above his head. His mind flashed on a bowl of petunias falling from the sky thinking, “Oh no, not again,” and then he remembered that bowl wouldn’t be created for another five years or so, unfortunately. He sighed mentally.

Being honest, he realized that this wasn’t precisely like the last time he’d found himself in this, well… position. By its nature – a searing rather than throbbing pain -- he could tell the headache was from a wound, not drugs, so he was in this situation due to inattention rather than gullibility. And this definitely wasn’t his flat, although it couldn’t even really be called a step above it, more like just a place in the pavement where a tree root had lifted the block and if you weren’t watching where you were walking, you could trip. The wallpaper was an equally bilious green as his own, but the flowers were fewer, smaller, and further apart, and two of the walls weren’t papered at all, just smoke-stained and a color that might have once been anything from light gray to cream to light green. It was impossible to tell in the rather orange light of the early morning / late afternoon sun – he had no idea which – filtering through the sacking draped over a rod to cover the window.

He closed his eyes, which helped a bit with his headache, and tried to think back. What was the last thing he remembered? Oh dear, thinking definitely did not help his headache; quite the opposite. Concussed, then? Still, he persevered.

He remembered being at the Arms with the rest of the squad. He remembered Nelson locking them in. He remembered arguing with the Guv about not driving home, winning, and being forced to serve as a cane when he had to walk Gene home instead. He remembered that even though it was bloody cold, the walk still hadn’t sobered him up completely; he hit his flat and fell into bed after barely managing to shrug out of his leather coat. Did he remember arguing with the Test Card Girl? All their “discussions” tended to blur together after a while, but he was pretty certain she’d been there. But… had they be interrupted by a knock on the door?

He just couldn’t recall. It seemed probable; the only other explanation would be that someone had busted into his flat and coshed him while he was asleep to make certain he didn’t awaken, a rather heavy-handed precaution given the availability of drugs that would accomplish the same thing. But then here he was both naked and handcuffed, as if whomever had kidnapped him thought that it was possible he could work his way out of police ‘cuffs and wanted to make doubly sure by relieving him of his clothing that he didn’t immediately escape. Admittedly, whether he’d been asleep or awake when he’d been hit over the head was a moot point now.

He heard and felt footsteps coming into the room -- each "thump" and shake of the bed making his headache even worse -- and forced his eyes open again. The figure was male, large, and backlit by the sun so he could determine little else.

“Owww, ‘ere, ‘e’s kicked tha bedclothes off. Didna need t’ see _that_! Were bad enou’ I had t’ strip ‘im.”

A rough blanket was thrown over the lower half of Sam’s body. He must have made some sort of sound or flinched when it hit, because the man announced, “’E’s awake, Boss.”

“Fine, I’ll deal with him now.” Another man came into the room from behind Sam’s head and swapped places with the large blanket-thrower. His silhouette was just as tall, but thinner.

“Tyler? Detective Inspector Samuel Tyler?” The new man had a posh public-school accent straight out of a historical telly drama, complete with the richer-than-thou drawl that made each word sound as if it had an insult hidden within it. Sam had never met someone who spoke like that before; he’d thought it made up by the actors.

He opened his mouth to quip something like, “Who wants to know?” but nothing came out except a weak cough. Sam closed his eyes, swallowed a couple of times, and settled for, “Yeah?”

He half-expected his captor to answer, “I’ve done you, haven’t I?” and decided his concussion was worse than he’d originally thought.

Instead, the thin silhouette replied, “Ah, good. Marvin is known for both over-enthusiasm and a bad sense of direction. You arrived without identification; I needed to be certain. I’ll need some more information from you. Let’s get you some water.” He raised his voice. “Marvin, the glass!” Sam winced.

The massive footsteps came into the room again, and Marvin announced, “’Ere, Mr. McMillan.”

His boss sighed, “Just ‘Boss,’ Marvin. Oh well, I guess it won’t really matter.” He slid his hand under Sam’s head to lift it. Sam winced again and sucked in a hiss.

“Oh dear, you do have a bit of a gash. Like I said, over-enthusiastic.” He held the glass to Sam’s lips, and Sam managed to get a mouthful without more than a dribble down his chin.

“Bit like a Vogon, then.” Sam mumbled after he swallowed.

McMillan laid Sam’s head back down. “I beg your pardon?”

“Concussion. ‘M probably raving.” Sam would have waved his hand if it hadn’t been rather firmly attached to something at the time.

“Oh dear, that’s not good. The information I need is extremely important. One might say my life depends on it; one could definitely say that about yours. Let’s get some more of this in you. ” He was a little more careful lifting Sam’s head this time, and Sam got two more good swallows before he was lying flat again.

“Marvin, wet down a flannel. Let’s clean up the mess you made,” McMillan called out again. Sam heard the other man muttering and crashing about the next room. He tried to remember his hostage situation training… _Engage the hostage taker. Conversation will make him view his hostages as people, not bargaining chips._

“Mr. McMillan – what is so important that you’d risk the conseq-“ here, Sam had to cough, “-risk abducting a policeman?”

McMillan reached up and behind Sam to take the wet flannel from Marvin. “I’ll ask the questions here, DI Tyler,” he replied. He raised Sam up again and started dabbing at the wound on the back of his head.

“You can call me – ssss, ouch! – Call me Sam.” Water, medical care… perhaps this McMillan could be reasoned with, if Sam tried to get friendly. Really, he didn’t seem like such a bad bloke, although Gene would have pronounced him poncy because of his accent.

“Thank you, Sam. There, are you starting to feel better?”

Sam lay there a minute and realized that yes, he was. Much better. Far better than two or three mouthfuls of water and wearing a little less dried blood should have made him feel. “A lot. I think I may be going into shock.” Not knowing why he did so, Sam smiled at the shadowy man next to his bed.

“Ah, no, not from a small gash like that, even if your brains did bounce around a bit in the bargain. I’m afraid I’ve insured your cooperation with a little ethanol. The Soviets swear by it as a truth serum, with the added value of completely wiping the _tête-à-tête_ from the subject’s memory. We’ll have a friendly little chat, you’ll cheerfully tell me everything I need to know, and when we’re all done you’ll wake up again in your own bed with a lost day and no clue how you got that scrape on your scalp. Now, shall we begin?”

Sam’s smile turned into a giggle. “Bounce brains a bit in the bargain. Cheerful chat. Scalp scrape. You’re very alliterative, Mr. McMillan. Even your name! ‘Mister’ seems awfully formal for a friendly chat though; do you have a first name, or should I just call you Alliterative? Alliterative McMillan. Quite a mouthful, even for someone with an accent as posh as yours.”

Sam’s captor sighed. “Well, no chance of you being resistant, is there? Since you won’t be remembering to tell anyone, my first name is Ford.”

“Marvin… Ford… I suppose you’re not from Guildford, then, after all?” Sam giggled louder. He would have been rolling about, if he weren’t still handcuffed.

“Certainly not. Settle down now, Sam. We need to talk,” McMillan huffed. “Now, do you remember the big rally that’s happening next Tuesday?”

Sam sniggered a little more then tried to concentrate. “Um… oh! Big Labour Party ‘do. With the new constituencies drawn up, they want to make certain they’ve matched up new seats with MPs. Dunno why they couldn’t do it in London…”

“Very good, Sam! I’m certain that’s driving everyone at the station crazy, figuring out how to protect all those big-wigs and still keep enough manpower out on the streets.”

“You don’t know the half of it. The Guv’s going bonkers. Every time he gets the assignments sorted, the Superintendent tells him there’s someone else who wants a police escort, or somebody’s snout rings us up and says there’s a blag going down because they know we’re under-staffed.” Sam leaned up towards McMillan conspiratorially. “We’ve got meter maids working traffic control that day to free up the plods and plonks.”

McMillan shook his head. “Very inconsiderate of them, causing your lot all that grief. I suppose securing the hall for the rally is a nightmare as well?”

Sam looked puzzled. “No, that’s the easy part. There’re only two entrances. When the building empties out the night before, we lock it down and search it from top to bottom. The next morning –“

The door into the flat, unnoticed by Sam until that moment, opened with a resounding crash. Gene and Ray came bursting in, pistols drawn. “’Ands up,” demanded Gene of McMillan, who complied readily.

“The android’s in the kitchen,” Sam called out, but Ray already had Marvin in his sights.

After the kidnappers were arrested and lead outside by Chris and Ray, Gene unlocked Sam’s handcuffs. “How’d you find me, Guv? Didn’t have an Electronic Thumb…” asked Sam while he rubbed his wrists.

“Didn’t ‘ave a whut?” blinked Gene, and stuck out a hand for Sam to use to pull himself up to a sitting position. “We followed a trail of blood from yer flat to this one. Where are ya ‘urt, Sammy?”

Sam pointed to the spot. “Back of the head. The big one, Marvin the Vogon, coshed me a good ‘un; I’ve got a nasty gash and a bit of a concussion.”

“Ah, that explains why yer being more incomprehensible than usual, Dorothy.” Gene ran his hand down his face.

Sam smiled and slowly shook his head. “No, I think we might blame that on the drugs. McMillan said it was a truth serum. I’m afraid I’m babbling a bit; you might want to ignore about three-fourths of anything I say for the next few hours.”

“Truth serum, eh?” Gene grinned, grabbed Sam’s elbow, pulled him slowly to his feet, and wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist when it became obvious he wasn’t going to remain standing on his own. “Let’s get ya to A&amp;E, Sammy-boy, and we’ll have a nice chat on the way. You can tell me all about whut those two asked ya, and anything else ya ‘ave on yer doped-up little brain. Whut would ya like to talk about?”

“Oh, life, the Universe, and… everything, Guv.”


End file.
